


Center of (My) Gravity

by dissolvedingirl (imadra_blue)



Series: Psychosexual Developments [1]
Category: Criminal Minds
Genre: Awkward Sexual Situations, Canon - TV, Character Study, Drama, Dysfunctional Relationships, Eventual Romance, Implied/Referenced Canon Child Abuse, M/M, Missing Scenes, Oral Sex, Season/Series 07, Sexual Repression, Slice of Life, Wordcount: 5.000-10.000, one-sided sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-29
Updated: 2015-07-29
Packaged: 2018-04-11 21:27:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4452989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imadra_blue/pseuds/dissolvedingirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was supposed to be a small thing that changed nothing, but it meant more to Spencer Reid than he wanted to admit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Center of (My) Gravity

**Author's Note:**

> **Beta Reader:** A surplus of gratitude must be delivered to [emotionalmorphine](http://archiveofourown.org/users/emotionalmorphine) for their kind help. Thanks to them, the story underwent many necessary changes.  
>  **Notes:** Takes place over the course of Season 7. Since I write to music, I made my own fanmix for this series. If you would like to listen to it, please go [here](http://8tracks.com/dissolvedingirl/psychosexual-developments-a-hotch-reid-fanmix).

…

> _
> 
> The center of gravity is "the source of power that provides moral or physical strength, freedom of action, or will to act."  
>  \- DoD Dictionary of Military and Associated Terms
> 
> _

…

A void had appeared in Spencer's life after Prentiss died. The void turned into an abyssal maw when Hotch left for Afghanistan. The return of JJ to the team only allowed him to stop gazing into the abyss. But then Hotch returned. And so did Prentiss, alive and seemingly well. It was miraculous, yet the emptiness inside of him remained.

Spencer was pretty sure spaghetti wasn't going to fill the void, but there he was at Rossi's house, trying to make it happen anyways.

"You're going to burn your onions," Hotch said, looking over Spencer's shoulder. The others had already finished cooking their food under Rossi's direction and were waiting in the dining room. Yet Hotch lingered, as if some sort of substitute cooking teacher.

"Isn't that caramelization? I thought that was good?"

Hotch lowered the heat on the stove range. "Caramelization is one thing. But you're scorching them." He slipped the wooden spatula out of Spencer's hand and started stirring the onions. "Do you have everything else ready?"

"I thought we were supposed to cook our own meals."

"Yes, but not burn them. Is everything else ready?" Hotch asked, throwing in the garlic and a pinch of salt.

Spencer stepped back. "Yes. By all means." He wondered why Hotch fussed over Spencer's meal, but no one else's. Spencer was no great cook, but he wasn't helpless.

Hotch stepped where Spencer had just been in front of the stove. He finished Spencer's meal, glaring at the food in such a way that Spencer suspected that the spaghetti would think twice before doing anything but coming out perfectly. Hotch stood uncomfortably close; Spencer could smell his familiar Old Spice aftershave.

"Are you ever going to talk to Prentiss? Really talk to her?" Hotch asked after a moment.

Spencer rubbed his elbows. "I will. Eventually."

"I would've thought you'd be more eager to reconnect with her."

"While there's numerous and well-known ways to deal with the death of a friend, you'd be surprised how little literature there is on dealing with their resurrection. At least in the nonfiction section."

"I get it. But you should have been angry at me, not JJ. Whether you came to my house crying or not."

"You're bringing this up again."

"I am the unit chief. I take the responsibility. That's my job, Reid."

"This isn't about the job. But if it makes you happy, I am a little angry at you, yes. But I couldn't go cry at your house. You weren't even in the country until recently."

Hotch finished the spaghetti and started plating it. "Good. It would trouble me if my part in the charade meant nothing to you."

"It would?"

Hotch handed Spencer the plate without answering the question, his gaze hot. His fingers brushed over Spencer, warm and calloused from years of gun use. Touch sometimes gave Spencer anxiety, especially if he considered how many germs were on the average man's hand, but this was Hotch. He was not an average man.

"Your car is in the shop for repairs, isn't it? How did you get here?" Hotch asked, his look hungry.

"You remembered? Yes, it was a bad alternator. Apparently a common problem with older cars. I took a taxi," Spencer said, confused as to the sudden change of subject.

"Would you like a ride home?"

"Oh. Oh, yes. Thank you."

Spencer didn't think too much of Hotch's offer during dinner. Trying not to make an ass of himself in a social setting and making peace with JJ commanded all his attention. He almost forgot that Hotch offered to take him home until he had to turn down everyone else's offer for a ride.

Once Hotch was ready to leave, Spencer followed him out, staring at the back of Hotch's legs. Though Hotch was dressed semi-casually in a polo shirt and khakis, the pants were obviously expensive and tailored. Hotch never wore anything cheap, not for work, not on his night off. Not for the first time, Spencer wondered why Hotch wore such expensive clothing to work in the field. Spencer assumed it was because Hotch wished to present a symbol of authority and power, but Hotch didn't need a suit to exude power and authority. He had seen Hotch in the men's locker room wearing nothing but a towel. He made the towel look like formal wear.

Alternatively, it could simply be because Hotch looked good in a suit. He had the perfect build to fill one out, tall, trim, and broad-shouldered. This thought kept Spencer's gaze pinned to the back of Hotch's legs, so he wouldn't be tempted to admire Hotch's buttocks or the movement of his shoulder blades. He kept his gaze so focused on those legs that he hardly noticed them stop moving and rammed right into Hotch's back.

"Oof," Spencer said, feeling as if he had run into a wall. He took a step back, the scent of Old Spice clinging to his nose. It was a good smell.

Hotch didn't even wobble at the impact. He glanced behind him. "Be careful. Don't hurt yourself." Not "watch out" or "look where you're going" but "don't hurt yourself." It was this concern for others, rather than himself, that held the team together.

"Yes, sir. Sorry, sir."

Hotch shook his head and opened the passenger door of his Porsche Cayenne. The door creaked. Hotch glanced down at it and frowned. Reid imagined the door felt very guilty under that harsh gaze. "It needs oiling. Jack hangs off of it too much when we go to the park." Pride. Pride in his appearance, pride in his belongings. Hotch always attempted to present the world his best face.

"It's a great car," Spencer said. "Is it new?"

"Yes, it is. I was going to get a two-seater, but Jack is the reason I opted for the Cayenne. I needed the back seat."

Spencer's stomach wriggled at the word "back seat" coming from Hotch's mouth. Usually, he controlled his attraction, but visions of Hotch in a back seat, pressing someone down between his thighs as he peeled off his suit were hard to stave off. "Really? Statistically, it's common for middle-aged men—at least those with the means to do so—to buy expensive new cars, usually going for the sports car. It's often an expression of frustration with the trajectory of their lives or with their aging bodies. You managed to combine practicality with the typical affluent, middle-aged male desire to drive a flashy vehicle."

Hotch's lips twitched. "Reid, are you telling me that I just had a very practical mid-life crisis?"

"Uh." Spencer winced. "Er." Maybe he could start over. "It's a great car."

"Get inside. It's already very late."

Spencer eased himself into the passenger seat of Hotch's car. It still smelled new, and everything inside gleamed. One would never know Hotch was the father of a young boy from the state of his vehicle. There wasn't even a stray action figure lying about.

"Air on or off?" Hotch asked once he got in.

"What?"

"The air." Hotch gestured at the air conditioning controls. "Do you want it on or off? Windows up or down?"

"It's a nice night, so windows down, I suppose. Not necessarily for the fresh air, given the amount of air pollution that has saturated North America, but it does at least present the illusion."

Hotch lowered the windows and backed out of Rossi's driveway. Spencer turned to watch as the buildings began to blur by. The wind rushed in through the open window, sharp and full of nighttime in the city. Images flashed through his mind, of girls lying in pools of blood with the night still clinging to their skin, of books written by eighteenth-century poets writing of the night's embrace, of city lights obscuring the stars, of his mother closing the curtains at night to cover the darkness, of the statistics for rape and murder at night, of the shovel burying into the dirt over and over, digging his own grave. Sound followed, bringing with it the voice of Tobias's father ordering him to dig faster, the chatter of untuned radios while his mother drove on long highways at night to find her unborn daughter, of an unnamed voice challenging him to calculate how fast Hotch drove simply by the rate of the buildings passing by his window. He could feel a migraine starting to crawl its way up the back of his head.

Hotch knuckled the dashboard and the radio turned on, silencing the voices and erasing the images. Spencer turned to study him as soothing music filled the car, a dreamy and feminine sound that bore no connection to a man like Hotch.

"Is this New Age music?"

"Delerium." Hotch worked his jaw. "The CD is—was—Haley's."

The mention of Haley made Spencer think of Hotch the night she had died. His fists had been raw and bloody after he beat Foyet to death. Spencer stared down at his hands. They looked too big for his arms. He always felt awkward in his own skin. Looking in the mirror was hard, forcing him to notice what a skinny, strange person he was. He wondered if Hotch ever stared down at his own hands and felt out of place in his own body. Spencer doubted it. Hotch was the very picture of tall, dark, and handsome. Everything about him matched every masculine ideal set forth by society.

"You're unusually quiet tonight."

Spencer realized Hotch was side-glancing at him. "Is that bad?"

"Not necessarily, but you can talk, if you like."

After a moment, Spencer explained the history of highways and the rise of violent crimes attributed to its development. Hotch listened attentively until he drove up to Spencer's apartment building.

"Thank you. Good night," Spencer said, and started to leave until Hotch grabbed his wrist. It was the second time Hotch had touched him that night. The frequency seemed unusual.

"Wait." Hotch licked his lips. His expression was difficult to read in the gloom. "I wanted to… talk to you about something."

"You did?" Spencer closed the car door, feeling a bit of trepidation. "Did I do something wrong?

"What? No."

"Then what is it that you wanted to talk about?"

Hotch gripped his steering wheel and swallowed hard. Spencer blinked twice and rubbed his eyes, but Hotch still looked nervous to him. He had never seen Hotch nervous.

"Did _you_ do something wrong?" Spencer asked.

"Not yet. But I'm thinking about it."

Spencer tilted his head. Hotch acted as if he were about to confess a crime. Nothing about this moment made any sense. Spencer was certain he was missing something.

Hotch sighed. "I'll be direct." He side-glanced at Spencer, his gaze molten even in the darkness, and his knuckles whitened around his steering wheel. "Oral sex. I enjoy performing it on men. No need to reciprocate."

Spencer couldn't have been more stunned if Hotch had sucker punched him. Being struck speechless wasn't a common condition for him, but all capacity for communication had shorted out in his brain. He pressed back against the car door, the handle jamming into his back, but he barely felt it.

After a moment of awkward silence, words spilled out of Spencer, unbidden. "You figured out I'm bisexual. You work all the time, spend all your free time with your son, so finding time for casual sexual encounters with men is remarkably limited. You're asking me because I'm the only male member of the team who is not heterosexual. You—" He fell silent, unable to complete the thought. The SUV grew warm despite the chill air.

"It's your choice," Hotch whispered, still not looking directly at Spencer. "If you're interested at all. Sometimes I think you are. But you might not be. I—" He paused to rub his lips and glance away. "I like to give blowjobs. That's all I want. It would change nothing about either of our lives. Not work, not personal."

The novelty of Hotch's proposal left Spencer speechless at first, but curiosity and that thread of want he always had for Hotch flared. "I—" He cleared his throat. "I'm interested." 

Hotch gave Spencer his full attention now, and Spencer had seen that sort of look before on a man. It was the look of a man closing the distance between himself and a woman at a night club. It was the look of a man who realized he was within reach of what he wanted. It could even be compared to the look of a psychopath gazing at his intended victim, but Spencer pushed away that comparison. He never thought anyone would look at him like that.

"Is your apartment all right?" Hotch asked, his voice strained. "We could get caught in the car."

"It's fine."

Hotch nodded and swiftly parked his car. He said nothing as Spencer led him up to his apartment, which was something of a blessing, as Spencer kept dropping his keys. Spencer's stomach started to twist in anxiety. Things could go so wrong. What if Hotch pulled down Spencer's pants and laughed, as the boys in high school once had?

But Spencer had little chance to doubt his choice once inside. Hotch seized him about the waist, pulling him close. He cupped Spencer's neck, thumb brushing over his cheek. Spencer could feel the gun callouses against his skin. Warmth shot from his neck, down his spine, leaving an almost dilaudid-like euphoria in its wake. Hotch leaned forward as if to kiss him, making Spencer's stomach flutter. But instead of a kiss, Hotch ran his tongue over Spencer's jaw.

Spencer made a small squeaking noise. "What did you do that for?" He was aware that sex wasn't sanitary, but another human being had just put his tongue on him. It was as intriguing as it was distressing.

Hotch immediately straightened. "You didn't like it?"

"I didn't say that," Spencer said. It had been a surprise, but not unpleasant. "I just wasn't prepared to be licked."

Hotch arched a brow. "I intend on doing much more than licking you, Reid." He leaned forward again to whisper in Spencer's ear. "I intend on swallowing your cock whole and then sucking on it until you come."

The noise that escaped Spencer's mouth was incredibly undignified. His pants felt tight already. He had no idea just words could do that.

"Is that all right with you?"

Spencer nodded and closed his eyes as Hotch nudged him back onto his couch. "Do you want… to kiss?" he asked, feeling Hotch's breath against his cheek. "Kissing seems a precursor to many sexual activities in Western cultures. Some argue it as ritualistic behavior."

There was a moment's silence, a hesitation, then, "No. It's better that way."

Hotch eased Spencer back onto his couch. When he started to tug at Spencer's belt, Spencer's stomach lurched as if taking the first plunge on a roller coaster. All he heard was Hotch's breath in his ear and the clink of his belt buckle being undone. He closed his eyes to limit the overwhelming sensations he was receiving, gasping as Hotch unzipped his trousers. Fear at being mocked bit at him, but abated when Hotch didn't laugh. Hotch actually seemed eager to see.

"Breathe," Hotch whispered as he tugged Spencer's pants down, though his own breath sounded labored.

Spencer tried to control his breathing, but it was no use when Hotch wrapped his fingers around his aching erection. He gasped, overwhelmed by the feel of another man's hand wrapping around his cock. A mortifying whining noise escaped his lips, and his cock twitched against Hotch's palm.

Hotch chuckled. "You're sensitive," he whispered again in Spencer's ear. He brushed Spencer's lips once more with his thumb before moving down Spencer's body. Spencer opened his eyes as Hotch pressed against his hips. Spencer hardly had time to consider what was happening before Hotch took the tip of Spencer's cock into his mouth and sucked.

Another noise escaped Spencer's mouth, this time a high-pitched moan. Every sensation seemed exaggerated, from Hotch's fingers wrapping around his too-thin hips, to the rough weave of Spencer's couch cushions against his bare skin, and most especially to Hotch's tongue flicking against his slit, lapping up the pre-cum. Spencer gripped the back of Hotch's head, burying his fingers in that thick hair. He couldn't help but soak up the attention, even though a part of him couldn't forget how dirty this all was. Hotch pressed hard on Spencer's bare hips to keep him from bucking as he traced the contours of Spencer's cock with his tongue. The fabric weave was sure to leave an imprint on Spencer's ass when all was said and done.

Then Hotch took Spencer's entire cock in his mouth and started to suck, and Spencer's higher thought ceased to function. Spencer couldn't even care about all the bacteria in the human mouth now covering his dick. Shameless moans spilled out of him. Hotch buried his nose in Spencer's pubic hair, fingers gripping Spencer's hips hard enough to leave bruises. But all that mattered was Hotch's mouth on his cock, his tongue pressed firmly on the underside, the near-relentless suction almost brutal. Saliva dripped down Spencer's inner thigh, but he didn't care. Obscene noises filled Spencer's ears, and not all of them were his own. Even Hotch gave the occasional small moan when he paused for air.

Spencer keened as he came into Hotch's waiting mouth, tugging hard on Hotch's hair. He whited out and when he regained his senses, he realized had Hotch swallowed. The thought was something of a rush. Hotch licked Spencer clean before sitting up, an obvious erection pressed against Spencer's thigh. To Spencer's surprise, Hotch's pants had tented in a rather impressive fashion. But Hotch only stared at Spencer's book-strewn coffee table and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

"Let me," Spencer whispered, reaching for Hotch's hard-on, hoping to make Hotch moan as he had, but Hotch caught his wrist and held him still. "Don't you want—want me to—"

"No. I can't," Hotch said, his expression tight, his tone almost angry. He didn't look at Spencer as he stood up, and a storm brewed across his expression. "I'm sorry. But thank you for indulging me."

Spencer half-sat up on his couch and watched as Hotch hurried out of his apartment. A migraine started to build in the back of Spencer's head, so he just curled up on his couch and tried to pretend nothing had just happened.

…

All the tornadoes in Wichita seemed to have thrown off any hope of Spencer fighting off a migraine at work. The air pressure and the noise still left him woozy and nauseated despite being at Quantico. He didn't make even make it to lunch before having to visit the nurse for a migraine. Pain had a vice grip around his head and squeezed until he wanted to scream.

Spencer refused all medication, so the nurse gave him a cool compress for his forehead and left him behind screens to lie down. She turned off as many lights in the clinic as she could for him. After a while, he heard a familiar male voice and then the sound of his screen being slid open.

"Reid, are you awake?" Hotch asked.

With a sigh, Spencer opened his eyes. "I am now." In the gloom, Hotch offered a tall, imposing figure, and it took a moment to pick out his features. He and Hotch had barely exchanged two words that weren't work-related since their sexual encounter. Spencer wasn't sure he wanted to resume more personal conversation yet. He still felt raw.

"Sorry. After your episode today, Prentiss came to talk to me about your condition."

"Of course she did." Spencer slipped the cold compress off his face. "I'm fine. The doctors never found anything wrong."

Hotch was silent for a moment. "You know as well as I do, Reid, that doctors cannot always find what is wrong with us. Some ailments are invisible."

Spencer didn't know what to say to that. He could think of nothing but his mother, pacing about her bedroom, arguing with ghosts—people who didn't exist. It terrified him even more now than it had then, because those same ghosts threatened to haunt him. "Invisible ailments? Like mental illness? I don't know what this is, but I will deal with it. I have been dealing with it. I just had a bad day. I just—"

It wasn't until Hotch placed a hand on his forehead that Spencer realized there were tears in his eyes. He had sounded too emotional. He had let too much slip out for another to see. But Hotch's touch soothed him more than even the cold compress. He could feel a bit of the tension in the back of his head release. In many ways, that simple touch meant more to him any part of his previous sexual encounter with Hotch.

"Reid. I know better than anyone that we all have bad days. I am ordering you to take the rest of the week off. Go watch a movie in the theater—perhaps something romantic or introspective. Find a hot tub and sit in it for a while. Read a few books—at a normal pace. Go to a Michelin-star restaurant and enjoy dinner there. Find a pretty girl and kiss her—or a boy—or both. Or neither, if that is more relaxing for you. When you have a bad day, try to have a few good days to make up for it."

Spencer blinked up at Hotch, though he seemed blurry through the veil of his unshed tears. The pain was still there, but quieter now. "What about kissing you?" Spencer whispered.

Hotch look as struck as if Spencer had slapped him and lifted his hand. "I can't, Reid. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have asked you before for, well—I shouldn't have. That was my mistake. Don't make me yours."

"Did I do something wrong?"

"No. No, not at all. You're just—" Hotch shifted into a defensive stance, his fingers twitching. "You're a man. And I can't. I want to, but I can't."

The eagerness and ease with which Hotch had performed oral sex on Reid suggested that Reid was far from his first time. Yet, Hotch claimed Reid's gender was the obstacle. Hotch's defensive stance and shifting gaze suggested some sort of fear response. Spencer knew there were a million reasons for a man to fear his own attraction to other men. And Hotch didn't scare easy.

"See you next week, Reid. And not a moment sooner. We expect souvenirs." And with that, Hotch turned and slipped out of the clinic, leaving Reid still warm from his touch.

…

Everyone had clapped Spencer on the back or given him a hug at his birthday party. All except for Hotch, who had lingered at the edges of the group with a small smile. Hotch never touched him the entire night, though everyone else felt free to do so. The amount of affection was overwhelming, but in a good way. It helped Spencer feel like there was a grounding to his reality.

Spencer valued the affection even more than the presents his co-workers had left behind, despite his mysophobia. He still felt warm from the memory. He packed away his new presents and exited the room. As he passed by the open breakroom, weighed down by bags, he heard Hotch calling his name.

Inside the breakroom, Hotch was draining the last of the coffee pot's contents into his plain standard issue FBI mug. "Happy Birthday, Reid," Hotch said, glancing back at him.

"Thank you," Spencer replied, wondering why Hotch felt the need to repeat the sentiment.

"Thirty is a big year for some. Any big changes in your life?"

The question seemed pointed. Spencer frowned and thought of the recent changes in Hotch's life instead. According to Rossi, Hotch was potentially seeing a woman who was helping him train for the FBI triathlon. Spencer had glimpsed them together at the park one morning. She seemed pretty. Hotch smiled a lot at her. The memory of it left his stomach squirming, but he tried to set it aside. Hotch had made his choice, and that choice wasn't Spencer.

"Reid?"

"Huh? Oh." Spencer smiled a little and shifted the bags in his hands. "No. No big changes. Not even small ones."

"You're still not seeing anyone?" Hotch asked, his gaze intent over his coffee mug.

Spencer looked away. "No."

"I see."

"I'm glad you are, though," Spencer said. And he was, at least a little, when he wasn't feeling envious of the woman who had earned so many of Hotch's smiles.

"Thank you, Reid. It's not exactly official. Yet." Hotch finished his coffee and then glanced at Spencer. It seemed there was something almost like an apology in his eye. "I hope you find someone that makes you happy one day. When you're ready. You deserve that."

"Doesn't seem to be about what we deserve, though. But thank you. Good night, Hotch."

"Good night, Reid."

As Spencer walked towards the elevators, it occurred to him that Hotch had started avoiding him ever since he had met Beth. That thought gave Spencer at least some small satisfaction.

…

It was obvious that the cases that involved children upset Hotch more. They often upset everyone more. But unlike the others, Hotch usually kept his distance from the traumatized children after initial contact.

Billy Henderson sat on a hospital cot, clutching a stuffed bear someone had bought for him. Most boys Billy's age had no use for plush toys, but most boys hadn't been through what he had. Traces of dirt still clung to his face. He trembled, but he didn't cry.

Hotch stood in the darkened observation room, watching Billy through the window. His glower was as distant as Billy's expression. Spencer studied Hotch in the gloom. Foyet's torture and Hayley's murder had left more lines on his face and little hints of gray in his hair. His gaze had heated to laser intensity, and he stood as if a steel rod had been placed in his back. The sight of the traumatized boy seemed to have magnified the losses already etched into him.

"He wasn't able to give a statement yet. But the doctors confirmed he was molested," Spencer explained as he held up the medical report for Hotch to look at. "However, his inability to speak is likely from PTSD. His injuries aren't that severe."

Though Hotch took the medical report, he didn't read it. His gaze remained fixed on Billy. "Perhaps his body isn't severely injured, but his psychological injuries will last him a lifetime." Hotch's arms were crossed, but in such a way it seemed he was almost hugging himself, in an echo of how the boy clutched the bear.

"He asked for you," Spencer said. "He's having a hard time with men—even shied away from his own father—but he still asked for you. You saved him."

"I didn't save him soon enough. Morgan's busy with Angel, so send JJ or Prentiss in." Hotch turned away, his arms still crossed. "I'm going to follow-up with the forensics from the construction site." It was as if he was running from Billy. And that revealed as much as it hid. Morgan often coped with his childhood abuse by getting close to the child victims. Hotch coped by keeping a glass wall between him and the children.

As Hotch started for the door, Spencer glanced back through the observation window. Billy had finally lain down on his bed, still clutching his new bear, and seemed to be drifting off to sleep. "Billy will be fine. He just needs time to recover. Who knows, maybe when he grows up, he'll be strong enough to join the FBI and catch people like his abuser."

"It's not strength that would make him do that, Reid. It's anger. And I hope Billy recovers better than that." Hotch left the door ajar as he walked out. A panel of light spilled across the small trash can in the room. A receipt lay at the top, clearly labeled from the hospital gift shop.

Spencer picked up the receipt and noted the purchase was for a teddy bear. He wasn't surprised to see Hotch's name and credit card number in the payment line.

…

Spencer smiled because he didn't know what other expression to wear. There were many reasons to smile, at least. Beth seemed charming, Jack well-adjusted, and Hotch satisfied. Hotch certainly deserved happiness, and Spencer had always known he would never be part of that. But it still stung.

Somehow, at a local family restaurant after Hotch's race, Beth wound up sitting next to Spencer. Or perhaps he had sat next to her. Garcia and Prentiss gave him sour looks. He must have accidentally sat in the chair they were arguing about. Spencer wished he had paid more attention to where he sat, because now he was sandwiched between Hotch's new girlfriend and a baleful-eyed Garcia. He ate his eggs very carefully and tried not to make any sudden movements.

"You must be Dr. Reid. Aaron mentioned you," Beth told him. Hotch seemed wrapped up in a conversation with Rossi and Jack about soccer.

Spencer blinked. "He did?" There was nothing more foreign and alien sounding to Spencer's ears than Hotch's first name. He couldn't imagine ever using it.

"He said you're some sort of genius with a pile of PhDs. And the youngest. What are your PhDs in?"

"Mathematics, Chemistry, and Engineering. I have a BA in Psychology and Sociology, and I'm working on my Master's in Philosophy. "

Beth's eyes widened. She seemed impressed. "Wow. Hotch wasn't kidding. With that kind of education, I'd have thought you'd be some sort of scientist, not a profiler."

"With all due respect, I am a scientist. I study people and behavior, and in order to understand them, I also need to understand their environment. People have complex relationships with their environments. Scientific theories offer ways to define not just the world but the people living in it. I disliked lab work and prefer seeing my research used practically, hence my desire to continue to work for the FBI. I might not ever win a Nobel Peace Prize, but what I do has scientific value in hopes of one day learning to prevent violent crimes and improve mental healthcare."

Hotch glanced over, a dark cloud brewing on his brow, but just as he opened his mouth, Beth spoke. "That's an excellent point," she said after a brief moment. "I see why you moved to Philosophy. But why do you separate yourself from people?"

Spencer was caught off guard. "Excuse me?"

"You referred to people as 'them'. Not 'us'. Why?" Beth sounded genuinely curious, not hostile. Hotch glanced at her and seemed to nod to himself.

So Beth was clever, too. Spencer could see exactly what Hotch saw in her. Direct, forthright, intelligent, and pleasant. Not to mention attractive. "Sometimes it's easier for me to think I'm not like other people."

"Startlingly honest. I can understand that. Especially when you see the darker side of people so frequently."

"If you understand, then I presume you see it, too?"

"It's hard not to when you're a woman who lives alone. Everyone's the enemy. A potential threat." Beth glanced at Hotch, who was still watching her, though his smile had grown sad. "A woman has to be careful about the people she meets. Study them a bit before approaching them."

Spencer wondered how long Beth had studied Hotch before deciding he was safe. "Yes, especially in a romantic or sexual relationship. The statistics for domestic violence towards women are staggering. And the rape statistics even more stunning. The most disturbing part of it is how many women are raped by men they know. This suggests to me that—"

"Reid," Hotch said, his tone sharp.

"Yes?"

"That's enough."

"Oh." Spencer closed his mouth and fell silent, feeling awkward. Garcia was giving him a reproving look, suggesting he had said something wrong.

Beth touched Hotch's hand and then tilted her chin up at Spencer. "You're right. And that's why I understand your feelings on people. We all have our coping mechanisms." She glanced at Hotch. "You never mentioned he was so cute, Aaron."

"Cute?" Spencer asked, stunned. He almost never got called cute, except by Rossi, and often in a tone suggesting he thought the very opposite.

"As a kitten chasing its own tail," Garcia said, eagerly stepping into the conversation. As she started to pepper Beth with personal questions, Spencer finished his food to avoid further embarrassing himself. He could feel a migraine creeping its way up the back of his head.

After spending some time splashing water on his face to deter the migraine, Spencer wound up the last to leave the restaurant. On his way through the parking lot, he saw Hotch loading Jack into the back seat of his Porsche Cayenne. Beth was nowhere to be seen; she apparently had already left. Spencer slowed his pace down as he headed towards his car.

As hoped, Hotch looked over at him. "Reid. Thanks for coming today." His smile had faded, but Spencer had noticed that it seemed to whenever Beth wasn't directly looking at him.

"It was my pleasure. Should I apologize to Beth?"

"What for?"

"Was I not rude? Or something?" Spencer was a little confused. He could tell the rape statistics were not a welcome topic, but couldn't tell exactly how unwelcome.

"You were fine. A little blunt and tactless—I don't recommend rape statistics as table conversation with women—but Beth apparently understood. I was a bit concerned she might react in a way that would agitate you, but you two seem to have an understanding."

Spencer licked his lips. Usually, people seemed more concerned about him agitating others. "Oh," was all he said. 

"See you Monday, Reid. Go get some rest. Too little sleep can cause migraines," Hotch said as he climbed into his car.

Spencer watched him drive away, but it wasn't a migraine creeping up the back of his head now. It was warmth.

…

The day after JJ's wedding, almost no one came to work. Everyone except Hotch, Rossi, and Spencer took the personal day that Straus offered. Rossi sat at his desk, playing solitaire on his computer and occasionally filling out some paperwork. He visited Strauss's office a rather suspicious number of times throughout the day. After lunch, he definitely smelled like her perfume and his belt buckle was crooked.

Hotch spent the day tucked inside of his office, no doubt filling out reports and evaluations. Spencer spent the morning eyeing the office door and wondering how Hotch had recovered from the explosion. His ear had bled, and though he had been treated, he clearly wasn't giving it due consideration. Spencer worked on his statistical analyses of their cases, read a book on sexual disorders, and finished his own reports. Then he reread Maeve's latest letter, wondering if she had gotten his yet. It wasn't until after lunch that he worked up the courage to walk into Hotch's open office.

"Need something?" Hotch asked without looking up from his paperwork. Soft music played from an iPhone deck set. The office seemed gloomy with the blinds shuttered and lights turned down. It gave an air of being casual, which was an adjective entirely out of place in relation to Hotch.

When Spencer didn't answer right away, Hotch glanced up, the lines of his face seeming rather stark at the moment. "Yes?"

"I don't recognize this music, but it reminds me of the CD you played in your car the night you drove me home from Rossi's house. I did a little research on Delerium—it's an electronica band with a wide range. But this has the stripped down beat I would more associate with trip hop. The fact that you're keeping to the same sort of quality suggests your musical tastes have further developed in this direction."

Hotch's right eyebrow quirked. "You're correct. This is Massive Attack. It was recommended to me on iTunes after purchasing some Delerium MP3s. Would you like me to turn it off?"

"No, not at all. I just didn't expect you to listen to music at work."

"It helps with my ears to have some background noise," Hotch explained, his eyes hooded.

"That's a sign of tinnitus. Are your ears ringing? Is it persistent, or does it ease off? Do you hear ringing only when it's quiet? Did you have a doctor look at it? There's no real cure for tinnitus, but there's a variety of coping methods that you can use."

"It's been handled."

Spencer frowned and glanced around the office. If Hotch was listening to music at work with the blinds closed, it suggested that it wasn't being handled satisfactorily. He looked for other clues and saw a pill bottle near Hotch's FBI mug. Spencer took a step closer and made out both Hotch's name and the medicine prescribed: oxycodone.

The sight of pills like that on Hotch's desk gave Spencer an involuntary shudder. "You should be careful with the oxycodone. Those are highly addictive narcotics. American doctors prescribe far too many and far too easily. I don't know how painful your ear is, but use them sparingly, if at all."

Hotch tilted his chin up and studied Reid with a heavy crease between his brows. He grabbed the pill bottle, covering it with his hand. "I'll keep it in mind." He yanked open a top drawer, presumably to put the pills inside, but he proved too rough. The drawer slid right out and tipped its contents all over the carpet.

"Goddammit," Hotch swore, and quickly bent over to grab his things.

Spencer stepped around the desk and knelt down to help pick up the fallen items. He saw another orange pill bottle that had rolled over to the bookcase. A cold pit opened in his stomach. Did Hotch have a drug problem he had been hiding the entire time? Spencer seized the bottle and held it up to confront Hotch, but then his gaze fell on the prescription.

It was for Viagra.

Spencer dropped the bottle back onto the carpet with a tiny squeaking noise that sounded better suited to an infant mouse than a grown human man. That was the last sort of medicine he ever expected to find in Hotch's possession.

"Thank you," Hotch snapped, face reddening. He snatched the pill bottle up and tossed it into the restructured drawer. His gaze nearly blistered Spencer's skin. "Is there anything else you need?" Somehow, he made every word sound like a slap across the face.

"No," Reid said. He didn't need to be told to leave. He all but ran out.

…

Come five o'clock, the office cleared of most everyone. Even Rossi packed up his briefcase and left work. Spencer meant to follow him, but the conclusion of his latest report took longer than he expected. He couldn't stop thinking about why Hotch had Viagra. On the surface it seemed ordinary. Performance issues were not uncommon for men Hotch's age. But something about it felt off, especially given what little of Hotch's sexual history that Spencer knew. Hotch had clearly been aroused after performing oral sex on Spencer, but he had also refused sexual reciprocation. Some people put high walls around their sexuality, and Hotch was one of those people.

Spencer glanced up and saw it was dark outside. He was feeling quite hungry and thirsty. He grabbed his water bottle to fill it up and assuage at least one of those cravings before he left. To his mortification, Hotch was in the breakroom, pouring coffee into his standard-issue FBI mug. Hotch turned to face him the moment he walked in, making escape moot.

"I was rude earlier," Hotch said, his expression as serious and intent as ever, but lacked the lash-like edge it bore in the office. "I apologize. You clearly came to check on my well-being, and I responded poorly. Thank you for your concern."

Though Hotch's apology sounded more akin to something a restaurant manager might offer after a bad meal, he seemed sincere. It was difficult to make out the tiny details on his face due to the dim lighting. It occurred to Spencer how often he met Hotch in poor lighting. It seemed strange.

"There's no need to apologize." Spencer glanced around, eager for another topic beside this one. Accepting apologies required a social deftness he lacked. "Why is it so dark in here?"

"I turned down the lights," Hotch explained.

"You did? Why?"

"My understanding is that light is a migraine trigger."

The water bottle slipped from Spencer's slackened fingers. He picked it up, wondering if the entire time, Hotch had been lowering lights for him? It seemed impossible, and yet… The thought left him quite warm.

Hotch sighed. "Well, that was all I wanted to say." He turned back to his coffee.

The absence of Hotch's paralyzing stare gave Spencer the courage to speak. "You always tell us that you're here for us and give us someone to talk to, but who do you talk to, Hotch? Rossi? Strauss? Beth? I hope it's not Strauss."

"Sometimes, I talk to Rossi. About some things."

"If you ever need someone to listen, I can be that someone. When I thought Prentiss died, JJ listened to me. That's why I was so angry at her, not you. It meant a lot that she had."

"I'm not good at talking about things. You might have noticed. But if you ask me questions, I will try to answer honestly." Hotch turned from his coffee again to face Spencer.

The offer felt like winning a game that Spencer hadn't been aware he had been playing. He had so many questions, and it seemed important to ask as many as he could before Hotch changed his mind. "Why are you taking oxycodone?"

"I understand why you're concerned, Reid, but it's fine. The doctor gave them to me after the explosion. It's just for pain. There's only five. I've taken one so far. I won't ask for any more. I know to be careful."

Spencer nodded after a moment. Hotch bore no visible sign of drug addiction, and Spencer thought he would be the one to notice first, given his own history. He pressed his lips together as his thoughts turned to the second bottle of pills he had found.

"You want to know about the Viagra," Hotch said, as if reading his mind. He pinched the bridge of his nose. "It's not even helping." He was tense now, avoiding looking at Spencer. His jaw was set, and he pinched his nose too tight to be mere irritation.

"You didn't seem to have any trouble before. I mean… with me."

Hotch glanced back at Spencer, his gaze smoky. "That was different. That was you."

"What makes me so different?"

"You're a man," Hotch said, tone flat, and licked his lips. His gaze shifted down to his coffee.

Spencer swallowed, trying to digest that information. He had so many more questions about Hotch's sexuality, but he couldn't muster the courage to ask anything so personal. Hotch had given him enough evidence to build quite the solid profile, but Spencer refused to create it. He wouldn't do that to Hotch.

"Have you been checked for a physiological condition?" Spencer asked, skirting away from the obvious answer. "There's any number of reasons. In my research on sexual disorders, I found a myriad of causes. It could be as simple as hormones or psychosomatic responses to stress or—"

"Reid, we both know what the problem is."

Spencer swallowed hard, and words tumbled out of him. "I could try to help."

"Are you sure you want to offer that?" Hotch asked, his voice dropping a few octaves. He stepped closer to Spencer, his gaze so hungry that Spencer slid back along the water cooler to the wall for better balance. He had lost his water bottle again, but didn't care this time.

Hotch continued. "It still won't change anything. I have Beth. You could still find anyone you wanted. It's not much, and—" He paused, eyes widening, and stepped away. "—and I literally backed you into a corner. I shouldn't have—"

"No, not literally. It's a water cooler," Spencer managed to choke out. He thumped the top for effect. "It's not a real corner, which is the meeting of two walls. Just the illusion of one created by where a water cooler meets the wall."

Hotch blinked.

Though it seemed to mean little to Hotch, the sex he offered was a moment that belonged to no one but Spencer. It was a moment when he was the most important, the most wanted. Spencer would take it. "I'm sure," he said.

Hotch pressed Spencer back against the wall and cupped Spencer's neck. His thumb brushed over Spencer's jaw, across his lips, leaving warm tingles behind. Spencer could feel Hotch hardening against his thigh. "Just like last time. I touch you, but you don't touch me," Hotch whispered, breath hot against Spencer's ear. "All right?"

Shivering in anticipation, Spencer nodded and closed his eyes, content to let Hotch do whatever he wanted. This time it seemed to happen in a dizzying blur. Hotch barely got Spencer's pants open before he swallowed his cock like a man starving. He wasted no time sucking as hard as he could, his breathy sounds carnal and obscene. It was rougher, almost too much. Hotch's fingers ran through his pubic hair, yanking almost painfully. He kept Spencer well-pinned, practically propped up against the wall. Spencer gasped out strings of nonsensical word associations, his entire world narrowing to Hotch's mouth. He didn't know what was Hotch's tongue, what was his lips—all he knew was that it felt incredible. He came fast and hard, hips bucking uselessly against Hotch's hands. He pushed back against the water cooler as pleasure rocketed through him, and the bottle tipped over, spilling its contents everywhere.

Spencer sagged against the wall and stared down at the water spreading across the floor. His orgasm had been intense, yet not entirely satisfying for a reason he couldn't put words to at the moment. Hotch had another raging erection, and his lips were still moist and pink. Rather than meet Spencer's gaze, Hotch stared at the wet floor and wiped his mouth dry.

"I made a mess," Spencer whispered.

Hotch glanced at the water spreading slowly around their shoes. "Technically, it's my mess. Don't worry about it. I'll clean it up. You should go home." The knees of his nice trousers bore water stains.

"Are you sure you don't want me to touch you?"

"Good night, Reid." Hotch met Spencer's gaze as he zipped up Spencer's pants, his eyes warm and tired. "Thank you."

Feeling hollowed out, Spencer made his way through the puddle of water on the breakroom floor. His shoes made splashing noises as he walked. When he glanced back, Hotch was mopping the floor.

As Spencer headed to the men's showers, he only wished Hotch always paid attention to him the same way he did during sex.


End file.
